The Problem of Monroe Manor
by azurelacroix
Summary: When a member of the House of Lords is kidnapped, Sherlock Holmes is called in to recover him. Scotland Yard believes the Irish Republicans to be responsible, but Holmes has his eye on someone closer to home.
1. Fresh Sport for Sherlock

It was a particularly sullen December day in our little corner of the world. I had risen quite late to find the long form of Sherlock Holmes tucked up against the sitting-room window, staring listlessly out into the foggy street. He was in the same dressing gown he had been wearing for the past three days, typical of his attitude when cases were few and far between. His forehead was pressed against the glass, eyes clouded over and his expression lax. So absorbed was he in his contemplations that he did not immediately acknowledge my greeting. After a moment of heavy silence, he lifted himself from his torpor and regarded me with those languid eyes.

"Existence," he said, ambling over to his pipe stand and selecting the cherrywood," is a dreary, pointless exercise, and it makes one desperate for the occasional tragedy to break up the monotony."

I sat down to my breakfast and began to saw into my steak and eggs. "In a good mood again today, I see."

"There has been a mass exodus among the London criminal classes since my return to the public sphere. Sometimes I wonder if my resurrection has done more harm than good for this country."

"Surely not," I said, glancing at him with concern. "It would foster boldness among them."

"And now that I have returned, they will remove their nefarious activities to other locales," he tapped the pipe stem against his teeth, and then favoured me with a sinister smile. "Perhaps I will again arrange my own demise, and see if I can't entice some sport out of them."

I put down my fork and knife, my appetite evaporating. I glared at him. "That is an appalling notion, Holmes."

He shoved a pile of papers out of his chair and dropped into it, stretching out his long legs and letting his head loll back. His arms hung loosely on either side of him, one hand clutching the pipe.

"Appalling! Ceaseless boredom is appalling," he said moodily, raising the pipe to his lips. "My art wants chaos, Watson. What is virtue without villainy?"  
To this I had no answer. I rose from my seat and went over to the window, pulling back the curtain. Below, a familiar figure was making his way hurriedly up our steps, followed by a uniformed police constable, who halted by the door.

"Well," I said, recognizing our guest. "I think you will get your sport soon enough."

Holmes looked at me, and then at the door as the sound of heavy footsteps met our ears. He leaped to his feet, suddenly charged with energy. I had often witnessed this sudden reversal of moods, but it never ceased to amaze me. In an instant, his whole aspect went from deep depression to hearty enthusiasm.

He met Inspector Lestrade at the door, hand outstretched.

"Inspector Lestrade! How wonderful to see you. Please, come by the fire, I can see you are quite damp."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade gripped my friend's hand, his face haggard. "I am in most dire straits and would be very glad of your assistance."

Holmes' face lit up and he looked as eager as a child on Christmas morning. "Pray tell, Lestrade. I am entirely at your disposal."

Inspector Lestrade held his hands out to the fire. "You will have heard about the affair?"

"No, I have not yet had today's paper."

"I shall have to tell you the details on the way. There is no time to be lost."

Holmes glanced at me, a quick smile coming to his face, which disappeared when he turned back to Lestrade. "It is a matter of great importance, then?"

"Tremendous importance. A peer of the realm has gone missing."

"Ha!" Holmes clapped his hands together in delight, and practically bounced off to his room to get dressed. Lestrade looked at me, eyebrows raised. I shrugged my shoulders and turned my attention back to my cold breakfast.

Ten minutes later found us in a four wheeler, speeding towards Charing Cross Station. Lestrade stayed mum until we were in the security of our train compartment, bound for Chislehurst.

"I am sorry to be so mysterious, but the Lords wish us to keep the press at bay as long as possible," said the inspector apologetically. "There has already been a considerable uproar."

Holmes waved a dismissive hand, and gestured for him to continue.

"Lord William Arthur Monroe went missing about half past eight Monday morning last. He was last by a builder, Jonathan Talbot, presumably traveling to Westminster. Talbot claims he spoke briefly with Lord Monroe about construction work being done on the manor house and that the gentleman continued on his way after that. His coachman could give us no details, as it was Lord Monroe's preference to walk to the train station. It is less than a mile from the grounds."

"Who reported him missing?"

"The Lady Monroe."

Holmes pressed his steepled fingers against his lips, and then leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "The first instinct is to assume, as when any member of the government goes missing, the motive is political."

"That is our feeling, yes," said Lestrade wearily. "The Peerage believe it is the work of the Fenians. Lord Monroe was a vocal adversary against Irish Nationalism."

"Indeed," said Holmes. "And yet no demands have been made?"

"None."

"No patriotic declarations, no ransom note?"

"Not a one."

Holmes' eyebrows were drawn down in thought. His eyes took on a glazed look as he peered out the window at the passing urban sprawl. "If, as you suspect, Irish Republicans have kidnapped or murdered Lord Monroe for the purposes of making an example of him, why then have they not come forward to take the credit?"

"If they are still in England-"

Holmes waved a dismissive hand. "Impossible."

I looked at Lestrade, whose pursed lips betrayed his irritation, then at Holmes, who was still looking out the window.

"You don't think it was the Fenians," I said, trying to discern his thoughts. He turned to look at me, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I have not discounted it...yet."

Lestrade snorted, and crossed his arms. Holmes' eyes flicked to him, and his smile broadened.

"As usual, we must pursue our separate lines. Come now, don't sulk, Lestrade," Holmes patted his knee. "After all, you want results."

Lestrade gave him a withering look. I hid my smile behind my hand.

The drive to Monroe Manor was short. The narrow road opened up into a wide expanse, and where it terminated, there stood a great sprawling manor house all done in the Tudor half-timbered style.

The east wing of the house was clustered round with scaffolding, upon which several men laboured. I could not discern the nature of their repairs, but as we approached, they all seemed to scurry to find some useful employment for their idle hands. I looked to Holmes, but he was watching the builders with narrowed eyes.

A prim, aged butler awaited us on the steps. We disembarked from the dog cart, Holmes in the lead. The butler gave a short bow, and beckoned us to follow.

"I am Byrnes. My mistress has been expecting you."

We followed the butler across the threshold, and into the richly decorated drawing room, where a handsome woman of perhaps forty reclined on a velvet upholstered sofa. She rose as we entered, and immediately fixed a hostile eye on my companion and myself.

"Inspector Lestrade!" she barked, and the detective jumped. "I thought I told you I wanted no more of your men thundering through my house. This has all been quite inconvenient enough without you snooping through our personal possessions."

"Madam-"

"And further more, I do not see how your hanging about here is going to do any good in recovering my husband!" she waved an elegant hand towards the window. "He is somewhere out there, not in here!"

"Lady Monroe," said Holmes in a calm, confiding voice. "We are not policemen. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Doctor Watson."

Lady Monroe, who was quite a tall woman, surveyed my companion with her dark, piercing eyes.

"Your name is not familiar to me. What is your purpose here? If you are reporters come to take advantage of our misfortune and pry into our private affairs, I must insist that you leave my house immediately, or I shall have you thrown out!"

I opened my mouth to counter this insult, but Holmes held up a hand. "I am a private consulting detective, Lady Monroe, and my only purpose here is to locate your husband. If you would prefer that he remains missing, I can always employ my time elsewhere."

The intractable woman drew herself up, evidently about to upbraid Holmes for his somewhat insolent pronouncement, but suddenly deflated, her shoulders going limp. She dropped down on to the sofa as if she were struck by a sudden weakness, and covered her face.

"I am sorry, gentlemen. I have been...it has not been..."

Holmes made a dismissive gesture, and sat down beside her, taking her hand in his. "You must be under tremendous strain, Lady Monroe. I promise, I am here to assist you in every way I can. But you must cooperate fully with me. Can you do that?"

She looked at him, her lip trembling slightly, and nodded slowly. Then she looked to the butler.

"Bring coffee and biscuits for our guests."

I settled myself on a velvet settee and pulled my trusty little notebook from my inner jacket pocket. Lestrade did the same, his beady eyes fixed on the distraught woman.

"First, I would like to interview your step-daughter," said Holmes, tapping a cigarette out of a silver cigarette case. Lady Monroe glared at Lestrade.

"Inspector, you assured me Ellen would not be involved in this sordid affair. You have already overstepped the bounds of propriety by allowing these...gentlemen into our confidence."

Lestrade looked from Holmes to Lady Monroe, his eyes widening. "I have not spoken a word to Mr. Holmes about Miss Monroe!"

"Then how did he know?"

Holmes lit the cigarette and pulled off it, slowly exhaling a cloud of smoke. "I deduced it, madam. There is a photograph of a young woman on the roll-top desk over there. It is not faded, so it must have been taken recently. It cannot be his first wife; in any case, he would not be apt to display a photograph of her. Therefore it must be his daughter. The wedding band upon your finger is not three years old, so Miss Monroe cannot be your daughter. Ergo, she must be your step daughter."

Lady Monroe was clearly shocked. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it and looked to Lestrade, who gave a helpless shrug.

"It is essential that I speak to her," Holmes said firmly. "You must allow me free reign in every regard, madam, else all will be in vain."

"I want it understood," said the Lady Monroe, "that Ellen is not to be upset on any account. She has a delicate nervous constitution, and has already suffered much."

"I would like to speak to her today," Holmes said insistently. "I will make it as painless as possible, but it is vital."

Lady Monroe shook her head. "I sent her to Brighton to weather this storm."

"Wire her to come back at once," Holmes commanded.

Byrnes, the butler, had returned with our coffee and biscuits. Lady Monroe gestured imperiously to him. He gave a short bow and went to carry out his task.

Holmes switched over to the seat facing the formidable woman, folding his hands together, and focusing intently on her for a full minute with his cigarette resting in the corner of his mouth.

"What, exactly, were the course of events during the day in question? Pray, be as exact as your memory allows."

Lady Monroe made another gesture, wherein a young maid servant I had not seen appeared suddenly at her side. The lady requested her fan, and began to fan herself vigorously.

"William- that is, Lord Monroe- didn't like to wake me in the mornings. He left very early, as it was his preference to arrive at Whitehall at 8 o' clock. I woke a few moment after he departed, and went to the window. He was in a seemingly heated conversation about something with Jonathan Talbot, the builder who is overseeing the restoration of the east wing.  
"They both walked away from my view, presumably to inspect the progress on the wing. That was the last I saw of him."

The lady's lip quivered, but her jaw was firmly set, and I felt a grudging admiration for her fortitude. In the course of my service with Sherlock Holmes, I had seen more than one woman succumb to violent hysterics in the face of such a tragedy. I could see now that Lady Monroe's truculence was a symptom of her grief. She did seem to express relief that Holmes had come to take the situation in hand.

"When was Lord Monroe first missed?"

"At about half-past nine that evening," said Lady Monroe, shutting her fan and setting it on the side table. "It was...it is not unusual for Lord Monroe to arrive home quite late, as he was passionate about his work. But he always sent ahead to say if he would be late. He was such a considerate man."

Lady Monroe's face had blurred slightly with a lovelorn expression, and Holmes cleared his throat. She blinked and refocused her attention on him. Holmes stood, taking greater command of the room. He tapped his lips with one finger, then pointed at his client in a graceful movement, as if conducting an orchestra.

"You wired to Whitehall, and was told Lord Monroe had never arrived, and was absent today's session," he said, a statement of fact rather than a question. Lady Monroe nodded, and rose to her feet.

"I immediately summoned the police. They have been searching, but they say now it was Irish Republicans, bent on political revenge against him."

"If that be the case, which I highly doubt," said Holmes, glancing at Lestrade, whose cheeks coloured. "Then it is safe to assume Lord Monroe has been removed to Ireland or some other foreign territory, and that recovering him would be nigh impossible. If the Republicans have him, I assure you, he will be dead before you have time to attempt to recover him."

At this, Lady Monroe gave a brief sob, and put her hand to her mouth. She then grasped Holmes by the hand, causing him to look down at her with a quizzical expression.

"You do not believe that, Mr. Holmes, I can see you do not."

Holmes patted her hand, and withdrew gently.

"I cannot yet tell you. I must first speak to your lawyer. But rest assured, dead or alive, we will discover his whereabouts before long."

With that, he inclined his head, turned on his heel and walked swiftly out the door. I gave a quick bow to the lady and hurried after him.


	2. The Gloves Stay On

Jonathan Talbot was a lean man just under Holmes' height, with a tan, handsome face and fair hair. Altogether it gave him the appearance of an Australian fresh from the outback. Young Mr. Talbot gave us a cockeyed look as we approached, and immediately glanced to Lestrade. He ducked out from under the shade of the scaffolding and gave the inspector a nod of his head.

"More about the baron, eh?" he said, a wan smile coming to his face. "And a brace of plainclothes jacks, as well."

"You are mistaken, sir," said Holmes cheerily. "We are separate agents from the police. But we do act on behalf of the missing man."

"Jonathan Talbot," the young man offered his hand, but Holmes ignored it, instead stepped past Talbot and made his way over to a patch of grass. The dewy blades were slightly bent in certain places, but not enough to discern the pattern of a tread.

"You walked this way with Lord Monroe. The Lady Monroe saw you from her chamber window. What did you discuss?"

Talbot scratched the back of his neck. "Well, he was a bit angry with me over the state of the house. Wasn't pleased about the work."

Holmes was occupied in measuring out the steps in relation to one another, tracing their exact route, so I gave Talbot my attention.

"In what way was he dissatisfied?" I asked, notebook in hand. Talbot glanced down on it, before looking back to me.

"It has taken longer than is usual, because of the nature of the work. We have had to replace all of the stone foundation with concrete because of water damage," he waved a hand at Monroe Manner. "You'll notice the house sits in a depression, so the runoff has affected the structural integrity of the entire wing."

Holmes looked up from his search. "You went to the basement to look at the foundations. Were you able to satisfy the baron as to your progress?"

Talbot nodded. "We agreed that we would stay on until the job was complete. Then he left for Whitehall."

"In which direction did he go?" Holmes asked, looking intently at the man now.

Talbot pointed. "Down the road, there."

Holmes indicated the road with his walking stick. "There are traces of our footprints, and the marks of the dog cart wheels, but there are no footprints leading away from the manor."

"Well, it rained early this morning," said Talbot, looking sideways at Holmes. "The road has been quite muddy as of late."

"As you say," said Holmes, a flicker of a smile on his lips. "Well, Mr. Talbot, that is enough at present."

My companion doffed his hat, and signalled to the driver, who took his seat and brought the dogcart round to our position. Holmes climbed aboard, and gave instructions to stop the cart at the gate. He jumped down and squatted down by the road, resting on his haunches. He brushed his hand over a patch of disturbed earth.

"See, here-" he pointed. "It is distorted, but clearly the same size as the prints in the grass. Lord Monroe has walked this way some days ago, in the direction of the house."

"But the rain did not wash these prints away," I said, catching on. "There ought to be prints like these leading from the house."

Holmes nodded. "My thoughts precisely. Shall we?"

We boarded the dog cart, and rumbled off towards the train station.

A few hours later found us crossing the threshold of Westfield and Sons. The proprietor himself was waiting for us with documents in hand. Holmes had wired ahead to the barrister, and I could see the telegram sticking out of the man's trouser pocket.

"Mr. Westfield," Holmes offered his hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Indeed, sir," said the big man, grasping Holmes' long fingers in a bearlike paw. We followed him into a well-appointed office, where he laid out the documents on a broad mahogany desk.

"These are the papers you requested, Mr. Holmes," he said, spreading them out. Holmes sidled up to the desk and unrolled an officious-looking parchment, all drawn up in elegant copperplate. It was the last will and testament of The Baron Lord William Monroe. It appointed Westfield as the executor, and listed bequests. Holmes lifted the paper, brought it into the wintry light, and read aloud:

"This being the last will and testament, etc...ah, here. The entirety of my estates are to be entailed to my wife, Catherine Monroe, while a sum of £1,000 per annum will be awarded to my daughter, Ellen, upon marriage to a party approved in writing by either myself or my wife. If Ellen chooses to marry without prior approval, the sum stated above will be transfered back to my wife's control."

"Holmes," said Lestrade, his brow darkening. "Are you implying that one of the Monroe women is responsible for this?"

Holmes let the parchment spring back into a roll, and passed it back to Westfield.

"It would be quite foolish to limit myself to only one possible motive, Lestrade. When a man is wronged, does one not first look to those closest to him?"

"How so wronged, sir?" demanded Westfield, panic crossing his features. "Lord Monroe has been murdered?"

"We did not say that," I said quickly. Holmes gave a coy smile that was anything but reassuring.

"Inspector Lestrade and I have agreed to pursue our separate lines. That way, we will not overlook anything. Now, if you will excuse us, gentlemen, we are long overdue for dinner."

Holmes, after his fashion, had forgone his meal in favour of his clay pipe. He sat puffing away, and was soon wreathed in thick blue smoke, his face the languid mask I associated with deep thought. I had sent out for the Pall Mall Gazette, and Billy delivered it promptly into my hands. The headline blared: Peer of the Realm Missing; Irish Republicans Strike Again!

Quick as a flash, Holmes seized the paper from me, ignoring my yelp of indignation. He shook it open.

"What tripe!" he growled, tossing the broadsheet down with a snort of disgust. "Half the peers are quoted, none of whom have any connection to Lord Monroe, and they do a more credible job of intimidating the British government than the Fenians themselves could manage. However, in this case, this blatant misinformation is useful to us."

"How so?"

"Because it acts as a shield for the real culprit. It breeds carelessness, which must benefit our investigation."

"Do you believe it to be one of the women? Lady Monroe struck me as a most loyal, if somewhat intractable, woman."

"You are easily satisfied," said Holmes disdainfully, blowing another cloud of smoke. "You are quiet unwilling to think the worst of a woman, particularly if she is attractive."

"Perhaps you dismiss her too rapidly," I countered, slightly annoyed by his attitude.

He leaned back into his chair, his attention wandering over the room.

"Lady Monroe has perhaps the strongest motive. The entail goes to a distant cousin, but one third of the property goes to her, in the amount of £30,000."

"£30,000!"

"Quite. The £1,000 is a pittance by comparison, and hardly temptation enough for murder by any gentleman the family might approve of."

"But if Miss Ellen has prospects..."

"A man willing to murder the baron must be far below his daughter's station, and he would have to remove the Lady Monroe in order to claim Miss Ellen's income."

"You believe for certain Lord Monroe has been murdered, then."

Holmes chewed on the end of his pipe thoughtfully. "The only thing I am certain of is that Lord Monroe did not leave his estate at any point on Monday. Not on his own two feet, in any case."

The bell jangled suddenly, bringing us both to attention. Billy handed my companion a delicately embossed card. He nodded and made a dismissive gesture with one hand.

"Show her in."

A petite young woman entered, her delicate features charmed with freckles. She had the look of one who is not accustomed to spending time in the sun, and had only recently encountered it. Her brown eyes were wide as she looked between Holmes and myself. I immediately rose to greet her, but Holmes remained in his chair, engrossed in removing a clog from his pipe. She looked at me with the expression of a frightened deer.

"Mr. Holmes?" she asked uncertainly, looking to me. Holmes set down his pipe and stood to meet her, offering his hand.

"Ah, Miss Monroe. How good of you to come."

She hesitated as she looked at his hand, and tentatively offered him the tips of her gloved fingers.

"Please do sit down, Miss Monroe. I know this has been a very trying time for you."

To the outside observer, Holmes' manner was ingratiating, but I could see he was watching her with the same avid interest a cat might show a canary. This impression was reinforced by the birdlike appearance of our guest. Ellen Monroe sat down, carefully arranging her silk skirts.

"Yes, I am Miss Monroe," she said in barely more than a whisper. "My mother, that is, my step-mother, sent for me at your request."

"And have you been in London long?" Holmes asked suavely.

"I have been in Brighton, sir," said the lady, a tiny line appearing between her brows. "I took the first train back."

"Yes, of course, my mistake," Holmes said as he resumed his seat, and promptly lit his pipe again. "I can see by your complexion that the weather was more agreeable in Brighton than in town."

She looked confused, then nodded slowly.

"Tell me, Miss Monroe," he continued without breaking stride. "When was the last time you saw your father?"

"Monday morning, at breakfast."

"He took breakfast with you?" Holmes asked, shooting me a disbelieving look. "That does not tally with Lady Monroe's statement."

"No, he never took breakfast," said Miss Monroe, shaking her head. "He said good morning and then left for Whitehall. That was the last..." she trailed off, her lower lip trembling. I sat down beside her, and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Please, Miss Monroe, I know it is difficult, but we are here to help."

"Yes, of course," she said in a husky whisper. I offered her a handkerchief, which she accepted gratefully.

"Tell me the exact contents of your exchange that morning," said Holmes, looking unblinkingly at the young woman. She wiped her eyes with the handkerchief.

"He told me he wished to speak to me of an important matter upon his return, then wished me good morning."

"What important matter?"

"I cannot say; he never returned. They say the Fenians took him."

Holmes arched a brow, took a long draw on his pipe, then stood and paced the length of the room before turning his attention back to the young woman.

"Are you aware of the contents of Lord Monroe's last will and testament, Miss Monroe?"

Ellen Monroe appeared bewildered at the question. "Of course."

"Would you be kind enough to recite the main details for me?"

Still quite bemused, the lady dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. "Lady Monroe is to get a third of the property, and I am to receive £1,000 a year if I make a good marriage."

Holmes nodded, then offered her his hand. "Quite. Well, I have kept you long enough, and I think it is high time you returned to the Monroe estate."

Miss Monroe rose from her seat and gingerly accepted his hand, again with the tips of her fingers. Holmes then did something I had never before seen him do. He grasped her fingers in his vice-like grip and bent down to kiss her knuckles. With a terrified expression, she tore her hand from his grasp as though she had been burned and took a step back. Holmes' face was unreadable as he made a quick bow. The lady inclined her head, and hurried away down the stairs.

Holmes looked at me, his mouth stretching into a wide, wolfish grin.

"I was wrong about Lady Monroe. Tomorrow, we must return to Chislehurst."

"What do you hope to find?" I asked, quite baffled by the exchange that had just taken place.

"The body of Lord William Arthur Monroe."


	3. An Awkward Position

I had been watching my companion seated on the other side of the compartment for close on an hour. He finally tore his gaze away from the rolling vistas and regarded me with a sideways look.

"You wish to offer a penny for my thoughts," said he, surveying with an amused expression.

"I would like to know what makes you so certain the baron's _corpus delecti_ is to be found in the Monroe grounds?"

He rummaged through his inner jacket pocket and came up with the silver cigarette case. It was a recent acquisition, but he would impart no details as to whence it came, except to say that it was given to him in payment for services rendered by an old friend.

"I suppose you would say I know that Lord Monroe has been disposed of somewhere in the grounds of Monroe Manor because I know that it rained early this morning."

"Holmes, must you always be so cheap with the details!"

The sinister smile flickered across his face, and he leisurely set his cigarette alight, taking a full puff from it before deigning to respond.

"You will remember that the Honourable Miss Monroe is to inherit £1,000 if she makes an approved marriage," he began, getting into his stride. "That was seemingly an insignificant detail; logically it does not follow that so small a sum would make her prey to anyone of her standing. But Watson, there was an engagement ring beneath that damp glove."

"An engagement ring! Has she entered into an engagement, then? But to whom?"

"Someone," said Holmes, twisting the cigarette in his long fingers. "Surely, a man to whom £1,000 a year would be a considerable contribution to his purse."

He paused, and considered the burning end of his cigarette, before putting it back between his teeth.

"Notice she did not remove her glove, despite it being wet, because she did not want to reveal the ring beneath. She must have been in Brighton, and had worn the ring there long enough that a contrasting line formed around her finger while the rest of her skin had tanned. She returned to London long before we wired her, for it had rained early that morning."

"She could not go gloveless without the ring and remain inconspicuous, so she decided to wear it anyway, under the gloves.

"You think that she has a lover, and he is responsible for the death of Lord Monroe?"

"It may have been at her behest," said Holmes with a satisfied smile. "It is possible the baron was a bully and a tyrant, and she took her revenge against him. It is also possible that she knows nothing of it, or believes her fiance to be completely innocent."

We deemed it best not to alert the Lady Monroe to our arrival. Holmes immediately took my sleeve and pulled me in the direction of the east wing. It stood beneath a skeleton of scaffolds, but beneath it seemed to be a sound structure.

"Tell me again, Watson, what did the builder say about Lord Monroe's last words to him?"

"He was concerned about the length of time it was taking to complete the repairs to this wing."

"Quite rightly, too. There is little fault in the structure of the wing. But it was the foundations that were in need of reinforcement. Let us see for ourselves."

With his considerable strength, Holmes was able to break the rusted lock to the servant's entrance. He swung the door open and we were met with a great eddy of cement dust. I coughed, and used my hat to wave the air clear of the choking sediment.

Holmes walked forward, unaffected as usual. He looked down at the recently poured concrete beneath his feet. It was uneven in places, with seemingly random patterns scraped into it.

Holmes dropped to his knees in front of the door, his glass in hand. His attention had alighted on a footprint outlined just below the door. It was of a large, narrow type, with a tread too worn to distinguish as belonging to any one individual. Holmes rose up from his examination, covered in a fine grey dust.

"Someone was here, and tread in the concrete while it was still wet," he declared.

"Yes, I can see that."

"It is obviously not unheard of among builders to step in wet concrete, but there is the danger of the cement hardening around one's foot and most make an effort to avoid it."

In two long strides, he was at the other side of the room, kneeling down to look at the wavy, uneven patterns etched into the floor.

"And here, something has been dragged across here. Wheels, a cement mixer. And there, and there. Attempts to obliterate old footprints. But whose?"

Suddenly he was on his feet, his entire attitude that of a fox hound who has just caught the scent; he was frozen, and stood leading with his nose, then without warning, dashed towards the door. "Come, Watson!"

Ten minutes later, we had rounded up the entire building crew and had them all standing on one foot like a row of show horses, one foot held up for inspection. He walked up and down the row twice, examining the treads. He paused at Jonathan Talbot for an instant, and whipped out his magnifying glass. He knelt down in the grass, bent in close, and then rose, brushing the grass from his knees.

"Very well," he said, patting Talbot on the shoulder. The builders collectively relaxed, and muttered as they sauntered away to their various employments.

"Not a one. Perhaps an outside agent," Holmes slipped a churchwarden from his inner pocket, and stuffed a plug of tobacco in it, and leaned in so I could light it with a match. "It is possible, Watson, that Irish Republicans did apprehend him at his home. It is possible that boot print belongs to the only missing individual, Lord Monroe."

He walked a few paces towards the house and smoked contemplatively.

"It is not unheard of for the Fenians to abduct an enemy, and send his appendages back to the family, piecemeal through the post. Frequently with a crucifix attached."

"If they were far abroad, it might have taken this long for the post to reach the Monroe Estate."

"Quite," said Holmes in his most sardonic and acidic voice. I saw a little frustrated huff of smoke escaped him, and he seemed to rock on his heels. Finally he turned to me, and saluted me with his walking stick.

"There is only one thing for it. I am afraid we will have to trouble Ellen Monroe's nerves more than I intimated to the lady of the house."

It may have been my imagination, but I think he was quite pleased at the increasing abstruseness of our pursuit. He ordered and was given the use of the estate's black landau. He stopped to appreciate the twin chestnuts burdened by it, and we swung into the carriage.

"Take us to the inn."

The Royal Falconer Hotel was rustic, but well appointed, and had the modern convenience of a telegraph office. Holmes immediately wrote out a short wire, and handed it off to the page. Then he availed himself of the selections of scotch lined on the sideboard. Lestrade had wired money to pay for our accommodations, and we were given the best possible suite. It included a very large sitting room upholstered in blue silk, and high lighted windows. Holmes had closed the heavy velvet drapes, and had lit a lamp.

The young Miss Monroe entered, her birdlike features illuminated in a way that made her seem, if possible, more fragile. She was quivering head to foot, and she stepped quickly towards Holmes.

"Sir, you have put me in the most awkward position."

Holmes took her hand, and in one deft motion, tore her glove off. A thin, pale golden band encircled her finger, one tiny diamond mounted in it.

Holmes very gently removed the ring, and held it up to the lamp. He then tossed it into the fire, and fixed his penetrating stare back on his client. Her eyes were wide, turned on the red hot trinket.

"Brass and cubic zirconium, Miss Monroe. He wants your money, my dear girl, not your heart."

She looked as if she might cry. "It isn't what you think!"

"I do not believe you," said Holmes, making a circuit of the room before aiming an accusing finger at the young woman. "Nor do I believe that Fenian men were responsible for the death of your father. Everyone else has suggested it, why should you not go along? "

"Father is dead!" she exclaimed, her eyes glossy with shock.

"Undoubtedly. Abducted from the basement of the east wing, or perhaps he met his death there. There was very little evidence. No blood. A single track."

"I shouldn't call it evidence to declare him dead!"

Holmes rounded on her, disgust creeping into his tone. "You are shielding a murderer, Miss Monroe."

She opened her mouth as if to speak, then took a step back. She inclined her head, turned, and fled the room.

"Excellent work, Holmes," said I, getting up to open the drapes. He gave me a withering look, then shrugged his shoulders.

"I have planted the idea in her mind," he said in his clipped tone. "Her trust in him will disappear. In the mean time, I must think on this. I am going for a stroll. Don't wait up."

He blew out the lamp, seized up his hat and cane, and swept out the door.


	4. A Flair For the Dramatic

It was late that night when I finally saw Holmes again. That is to say it was very early in the morning. He crept into my room and shook me awake, his pale face looming above me in the dark, lit by a guttering candle in his left hand.

"What is it?" I said, wiping my bleary eyes.

"Get dressed, and come with me. Hurry."

Ten minutes later found me huddled in my coat in the Monroe landau. Holmes was wide awake, his eyes seeming to burn in the darkness as he stared unblinkingly out the window. I rubbed my gloved hands together, trying to restore the circulation in my hands.

"I have sent for Lestrade and a few constables so that we may do some serious excavation."

"What do you intend to do?"

He favoured me with a sly smile.

"To dig up the baron, of course."

Before long, we were marching across the grass, a constable at either side of us. Lestrade was ahead of us, holding a lantern. We used our handkerchiefs to filter the air as we made our way into the dusty basement. Holmes pointed at the footprint, and let out a small noise of satisfaction. Someone had made fresh attempts to obliterate it.

"It was one of the builders. It had to be one who had heard of my suspicions. A Fenian would not come all this way to attempt to remove evidence."

"But whose is it?" I asked, bending down to examine it again.  
"Jonathan Talbot's," said Holmes with a flourish. He seized the large gladstone bag and wrenched it open. "Alas, the bird has flown, but we may still find the nest."  
I gaped at Holmes as he extracted two large sticks of dynamite. He pointed the constables into the corner. They hefted their picks and began to hack away at the concrete.  
Almost immediately, a choking, vile vapour filled the room. Having spent time among the dead, I immediately recognized it as platonic ether. The police reeled, but Holmes stepped forward with a coil of blasting wire and the dynamite. The constables had made a sizeable crack in the concrete, and I could smell whiffs of horrid gas coming from it. Holmes laid down his burden inside the crack, and began to spool out the wire. We all fled the room, and followed him as he set the switch. Lestrade called "fire in the hole" and Holmes set off the charge. 

The resulting explosion shook the ground. Great gushes of dust flew from the door. We waited a few moments for it to settle, and then plunged back into the room to examine the results.

The bloated, green-grey body was partly mutilated from the explosion, but retained all the facial features of a man. Great ginger side-whiskers and a heavy moustache above a mouth set in a line of pain. He was still partly under a slab of concrete, but the constables started doggedly hacking away at it. 

Holmes coughed slightly into his handkerchief, and turned to me. "Let's leave them to it."

I followed him outside, forcing down the nausea, and we went up the hill towards the manor.

"Jonathan Talbot, you say?" I inquired as we walked through the dewy grass, the sky beginning to light above us.

"Indeed," said Holmes, taking long strides. "After all, when I recalled to mind that Mr. Talbot had resoled his shoes recently, it all followed. Of all the builders' boots, his were the only ones that were new, with tread intact.

"But he might have had them resoled at any time."

"Not so. I asked after the shoe repairman in the village, and he said young Talbot had been in the day before yesterday to fix up his work boots. He thought of it when he saw my first examination of the tracks on the grass. He knew his worn tread would give him away, and so he needed to alter it."

"Brilliant!" I exclaimed. We had reached the manor. We stepped into the hall, and began to strip off our coats.

"Simplicity," he quipped.

"But you say he he has flown. How do we catch him?"

"Oh, Watson," he sighed, hanging up his cane and hat. "I look forward to the day when you ask me a question that challenges my intellect."

I made a noise of irritation. He chuckled, and signaled to the butler.  
"We will have to appeal to the unfortunate Miss Monroe. I will see if I cannot compel her to assist us."

The sun had risen, and we had assembled in Lady Monroe's sitting room. She was nursing a cigarette on the end of a holder, and appeared beyond tears, having accepted a dose of morphine from me. Holmes too was smoking, and between them the atmosphere was hazy and stupefying. The younger Monroe entered, her normally pale face clearly flushed with grief and anger. Today she wore black lace gloves, a crumpled note in one hand. Though very small of stature, she marched up to Holmes and looked up at him with blazing eyes.  
He smiled indulgently, and gave a little nod of his head. Someone less familiar with Holmes than I might have mistaken his attitude as flirtatious, but I knew he had his own perverse methods of interrogation. Drama was his weakness.  
Ellen Monroe drew away from him with a jerk, an appalled look on her face. Holmes turned his gaze to Lady Monroe.  
"Madam, you have been deceived," he turned his attention to the girl. "Miss Monroe, Come clean, so we can proceed, or go to the dock for abetting patricide."  
Ellen Monroe looked about her like a trapped animal. With shaking fingers, she drew the lace gloves off her hands and revealed the white strip of flesh where a ring had sat.  
Lady Monroe gasped, scandalized. "Ellen!"

"And I do not doubt," said Holmes, sidling up to the girl and putting a hand on her shoulder. "That you know where your fiance is hiding."

Slowly, the girl nodded. "Yes."

"And a letter would reach him there?"

"Yes."

"Excellent."

Holmes then whispered into her ear. She went to the late Lord Monroe's roll-top desk, took up quill and paper. Holmes followed her, and seated at her side, hissed dictation. She quickly wrote out a short missive, and it was posted without delay.

"Holmes-" I began, but he waved a hand to cut me off.

"All in time, good doctor."


	5. A Good Day's Work

The Bow Street magistrate's office was not busy. Holmes accompanied Miss Monroe as far as the front doors, then placed a false marriage license in her hand, rolled up tight. Lady Monroe was in attendance, and Holmes was most anxious that I keep a close watch on the proceedings. I got into position outside an open window, revolver in hand.  
Holmes, on the other hand, had donned a dirty poor-boy's cap, and had applied charcoal to his features. He mussed his hair and stripped to his shirtsleeves, then went into the magistrate's office in the guise of a minor local criminal. He would make the arrest, once Talbot had signed out the papers.  
Miss Monroe stood in the middle of the office, then held out her hands to a man wearing a bowler hat. It was unmistakably Talbot, his tan face visible beneath the hat.  
Holmes had insisted they be allowed to carry through the legal entail of the marriage, in order that Talbot's presence may have been proved. The Lady Monroe stood as a witness.  
Ellen Monroe leaned in and whispered something in Talbot's ear. He looked about him, suddenly murderous. Without warning, he pulled a revolver from his coat and aimed it squarely at Lady Monroe. I moved to intervene, pistol raised, but Holmes signaled that I should halt. Taking care not to be seen, I climbed through the window and crouched behind a desk. Talbot seized Lady Monroe by the arm and pushed her down on the bench.  
"Let go of me at once!" Lady Monroe shrieked, raking her fingernails at her captor's face. He rewarded her with a blow to the head with the butt of the revolver. She dropped like a stone. Ellen Monroe let out a horrified scream. Talbot seized her by the hair and made as if to drag her outside with him, the muzzle of the gun pressed into her temple.  
"Stop!" Holmes cried, stepping between the villain and the door. He drew a knife from his pocket and flipped it open. Talbot turned his attention to Holmes, and Holmes glanced at me, nodding almost imperceptibly.

I cupped the butt of my revolver and looked carefully down the sight. I aimed at Talbot's left foot, and squeezed off a round. The resulting "bang" reverberated around the marble walls of the office, causing us all to flinch. Talbot let out a great yell of pain, a torrent of blood gushing from his injured limb. My shot had taken off the ankle and most of the heel. Holmes then descended on him, delivering a hammer blow. There was an audible crunch as Talbot's nose shattered. Blood poured from his nose, and he went down on his knees. Ellen Monroe pulled herself away from him, trying to keep the blood off her person. She threw herself into Holmes' arms, and he supported her back to the bench where her step-mother lay dazed, before dropping her unceremoniously next to her.

A half an hour later, we were again assembled in the Monroe's sitting room. Miss Monroe was bathing her step-mother's injured head with a damp cloth, and had not yet come to herself enough to do anything but stare. At Holmes' request, the young criminal Talbot was also present, a constable pressing a Winchester into his side. He was covered in dried blood and he leered at us.

"Mr. Talbot, you are here so that these women may understand fully the crime committed against them," Holmes said as he folded himself into the chair opposite, and rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. "I want you to start from when your little brain first dreamed up this notion of killing Lord Monroe."  
"Miss Ellen can tell you, sir," said the youth, his expression slightly drunk from blood loss. "We fell in love, and I knew I hadn't a chance of convincing the governor it was a smart match."  
"No lies," said Holmes, reeling back and slapping the young man a vicious blow with the back of his hand. "Now is not the time to get cocky, boy."  
Blood blossomed from the corner of Talbot's mouth, and he swayed slightly. Lestrade straightened him up, and gave him a little shake.

Holmes pulled two little bottles from his inner jacket pocket, and waved them before Talbot's eyes.

"You know I have great experience in chemical analysis, Mr. Talbot. I have tested quite a number of different compounds and have come up with these two very effective truth serums. Sodium amytal and sodium pentathol. This one," he held up the larger of the two bottles, "will kill you, very slowly, or so I have observed in rats. I've been looking for a human subject. Would you care to assist me?"

Talbot eyed the rather large needle Holmes had withdrawn from his pocket, then shook his head hurriedly.

"I first thought of it when I was surveying the east wing. The private study of Lord Monroe was at the very top, and I saw the will written out on a sheet of foolscap. I memorized it, and then told Lord Monroe that it would take some time to repair the foundation.

"I started to court Miss Ellen, and took care that none should see us. The old man pretended to be angry about the repairs, but I suspected he'd seen us. I offered to show him the foundations, and we went into the basement room. Concrete had been freshly poured, and was hardening.

"He turned on me, and declared, "you will desist from this day in your attentions to my daughter, or I shall have you thrown into a pit."

"I shall do as I please," said I, reaching for the shovel. He didn't have time to say a thing as I split his skull with the blade."

At this, Ellen Monroe gave a little gasp of horror. The Lady Monroe I had heavily medicated with brandy, and she seemed quite immune to the grotesque recollection.

"You buried him concrete," said Holmes, putting the bottles back in his pocket. "You were able to obliterate the evidence until you reached your very first footprint. There, in the air current near the door, it had hardened into an indelible mark."

"Yes. I knew my boots would give me away, so I went to have them resoled. I went to doss house in London, then got a letter from Ellen, that we were to marry in a magistrate's office, and that she'd sorted it all out with her step-mother."

"You did all that for such a paltry sum?" Lestrade said with disgust.

"Not that paltry," Holmes rejoined, indicating Lady Monroe. "The Talbots would have expected to inherit if Lady Monroe herself joined her husband in the sweet hereafter."

"£30,000," Talbot said, hollow eyed.

"Please excuse me, all," Holmes said as he rose and doffed his hat to the Monroe women. He nodded to Lestrade, and then went over to the captive Talbot.

"Don't be so glum," said Holmes, patting him on the shoulder, making him wince. "Think of it this way: you will no longer be in debt."

We were back at Baker Street by the evening, and were each enjoying an after-dinner cigar. Holmes had procured some very fine Havanas, being in something of a celebratory mood after his success. But already I could see the fine edge of the depression creeping into my friend's capricious soul. His head was resting on his chest, his cigar hanging loosely in the corner of his mouth. A steady stream of cigar smoke was issuing from his nostrils.

"It is remarkable how often a case hinges on such tiny details," he said airily, lecturing to the carpet.

"Such as the boot mark?" I inquired, eyes on the fire.

"The rain, Watson. The rain the day before yesterday. Had Miss Monroe's gloves been dry, I might not have thought anything of her keeping them on. I would have assumed her to have been in Brighton, rather than in London meeting her lover, presumably in the rain."

"How extraordinary!"

"How rudimentary," he had lapsed into his brooding attitude. "After that the challenge rather went out of it."

"You saved at least two lives today, Holmes, and received a handsome commission for it. Surely the result is more important than the method?"

"Shame on you!" he chided. "As any teacher will tell you, the method is key."

He glanced up at the painting of the falls that stood above the mantelpiece. He twisted his cigar, contemplating the image for a long time. Then he glanced at me. I immediately read his thoughts.

He tossed the cigar into the fireplace. "This is too rich for my constitution just now."  
Then he pulled out the finely wrought silver cigarette case I had seen on several occasions. "A cigarette will serve me much better."  
I wanted to ask him from whence he had received the case, but thought better of it. He gave me a grin as he lit the cigarette on the gas jet, half his face thrown into high relief by the bright light.  
"Don't look so worried, Watson," his grin became slightly sinister. "I will not do anything rash in order to procure sport. There is sure to be a sufficient number of tragedies to keep me entertained."  
I shook my head and turned my attention back to my cigar. Holmes chuckled, picked up the day's paper and flipped through to the agony columns, already searching its pages for the next heinous crime.


End file.
